


Oh, Brother!

by Paperbackwriter22



Category: AC/DC (Band)
Genre: Family, Five Stages of Grief, Friendship, Gen, Major Illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-25 21:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15649020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paperbackwriter22/pseuds/Paperbackwriter22
Summary: "If you die, I'll kill you.""I'll keep that in mind."





	1. Chapter One

Smoke poured out in one breath. It filled his space of the room and eventually it blew out the open window next to him. It had never made him cough so much before, but today was a special day. Today was a gruesome, dismal day. Another cloud poured out within five minutes. That same smoke he'd been breathing since he was of age to buy it. That same smoke that everyone else in the band had come to know and use so well.

That same smoke that would kill him.

Warm sunshine with a matching breeze invited themselves into the room leaving the man shivering. Together they danced through the curtains and painted the walls with a lion colored glow. Shadows were cast underneath the sunlight as expected; but they weren't the scary shadows you would hide from. No dreadful shapes or horrific monsters were made from them, they were simple, harmless shadows that kept you cool on days like this. They were the kinds of shadows that made you happy.

He was anything but on this particular day.

The monitor stood out before him and he observed it with a careful eye. Surely it had to be a mistake. He was healthy as a horse. Maybe he had picked up more than a few when their lead singer passed away but it wasn't anything unheard of among them. In fact, all of them had started using more than usual since that day. Why was he the chosen one? Why was he the condemned one? The monitor stood there mocking him. The picture clear as could be, but faded a bit due to the sunlight. The x-ray showing him what he never wanted to see, something he never expected to see. Something wasn't right about the picture, and only a trained eye could see what it was. The nurse had shown him, but he tuned it out, not wanting to believe it. If he didn't hear it, it wasn't true. Now that she had left to get some paperwork, he spent his minutes looking. Looking for it. The machine buzzed constantly as he searched, and finding nothing he frowned at it. It buzzed with life. Life he barely had. Life he was sure to lose.

I'm a machine. You're a simple human. Humans can get hurt. Humans can die. You're going to die.

Malcolm wished he were a machine.

Heels clacked the tile flooring as the nurse returned with the needed paperwork before they could leave. A copy was handed to Malcolm, and he took it with a shaky hand. The other was handed to Cliff as a reference, who was sitting in the little chair in the corner beside the exam table. Cliff looked at his copy right away, but Malcolm waited a bit. Whatever words were written on that paper he didn't want to see. They just told him he was sick and was going to die. After hearing it a hundred times from the nurse he naturally didn't want to hear it again. But in the end the words would just be read off to him, and so he took a glance; he knew how to fucking read.

At the top read a generic opening thanking him for choosing this hospital and welcoming him into the premises. A promise to take care of him and give him the best treatment available for whatever raging illness he had from the flu to pneumonia. Either one of these he would have preferred. Another promise that he would be handled with care and consideration and that his family would not have to suffer as much as they think, that everything would be okay.

Except that it wasn't. It wasn't okay. They would suffer no matter what some man in a lab coat made them think.

The next paragraph went on to explain in great detail the symptoms of his sickness. Symptoms that explained every sudden change he underwent in the last few months and that wouldn't vanish. The chest pain from August, the horrible cough from April, the rapid weight loss from June that had everyone including himself scared to death. The blood from last Tuesday...

His eyes skimmed down the page hoping there would be something written about other reasons for why all this was happening. That maybe he wasn't really sick afterall. It was just a simple mistake, the x-ray took a picture of something else or it wasn't clear enough. Nothing in his copy stated anything else other than what he was diagnosed with ten minutes ago.

A treatment plan was described at the bottom of the second page. The tests they would run, the side-effects he would endure, and the surgery he would undergo. None of them made his eyes light up. In fact, every word he came across ignited a spark deep within him. The last page was a questionnaire asking for a better understanding of their latest patient. Asking about the steps they needed to take to make sure he lived as long as possible before it got too much and he died. How to make it less painful for him while he was dying. How to postpone his death.

His head rose up from the paper as the nurse was speaking, her voice a fading static that he didn't want to listen to. But she forced him. "Sir? Are you ready to listen?"

Her voice was soft. Clean and clear, one that had never smoked a day in her life. He was almost jealous.   
Jealous of a woman's voice! Oh, brother!

"Sure," he answered, not quite sure at all. The nurse gave him a grey look, one that told him it would be wise if he did. "Yeah, I am."

"First off, I want to say how sorry I am. I don't know how you're feeling about all this, but I can't imagine what it is."

"It's okay," he answered again in the form of a lie. It was never okay. The nurse half smiled at him while he gave her a full one. It was fake, but at least it wasn't one of pity. Cliff had put down his copy and gave the nurse his full attention. He would catch the details Malcolm would miss.

"Now, I know it doesn't look like it, but you're going to be okay. What we found wasn't much, after maybe a year of treatment you should be completely recovered." He should be, but probably not. Life doesn't give a shit what should happen. "Maybe less than a year."

Malcolm nodded. It was all he could do. Talking in his voice like rocks only reminded him further why he was in here. The cigarette in his hand also did a remarkable job of this. He held it between his fingers letting the smoke drizzle out, finally crushing it in his palm. He wanted to kill the flame before it killed him...just once.

The nurse continued to go on about how all the treatment would work and what he should expect. A lot of vomiting, was what he got out of it. His hair would look different, and most of it would go away. The hair he had let grow out every several months. The hair his wife loved so much.

Pain was also expected. What with the illness being in his lungs and all, it was only obvious. Malcolm thought death was the only thing he was afraid of; but the pain before it didn't seem any better.

Cliff had asked a question beside him. He didn't hear it, of course. The nurse answered him with something else he didn't hear. He didn't care to hear. He wasn't sick, he didn't need to know any of this stuff. Hospitals were for old people, those who were too weak to hang on any longer. They weren't built for young people like him, who still had plenty of years left to enjoy. Sickness didn't attack young people like him. They didn't exist. He wasn't sick.

After his visit, the two would go home and it would all be over. Write some more songs, record an album, go on tour. Everything would be back to normal. He'd go home and see his wife and kids, they'd all curl up on the couch watching a movie and get ready for the holidays. Christmas would come and the band would get so drunk off eggnog that they wouldn't recover till New Years. And after that they'd get drunk off something else. Life seemed pretty great in those few seconds. He couldn't wait to go home.

"So, this is every few weeks we're comin' in here an' gettin' this done?" Cliff asked. The nurse confirmed. "We...we won't be able to go to work for a while then."

"Maybe not touring, no," she agreed. "but there's nothing stopping you from writing more songs. If Mr. Young is even up for it. I believe he will be...it's not too bad."

Not too bad.

Not too bad, but still bad. Not going to kill you this instant, but just you wait a few months. Then we'll see what's not too bad.

"What do you think, Mr. Young?" Malcolm turned at his name. A fit of coughing drowned him, and for a few minutes he was undeniably suffering. The nurse gave him a tissue to cough into. It subsided shortly after. No blood. This time. "Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?" He hadn't been paying an ounce of attention. He didn't need to.

"For a blood test. Doctors want to make sure there's nothing else going on that we don't want to miss." Malcolm complied. They wouldn't find anything wrong. He'd be in and out in a few minutes.

 

After the blood test he was admitted back into his room where Cliff stood waiting for him. The nurse followed and after a few more words of sympathy, they were free to go. Cliff wanted to answer the questionnaire while they were there so they stopped outside the front of the building to get some fresh air. Not that it mattered anyway.

"Okay, have you ever had any illnesses like this in the past?" Cliff read aloud.

"No."

"Okay. Have you ever had a family member contract this illness or die from it?"

"No."

"Have you had any other symptoms other than the normal for your illness? If so, please check all that apply." Malcolm didn't answer. Cliff looked at him.

"No," Malcolm sighed. Cliff continued to look through the questions once in a while asking the other man for confirmation. There was one yes. He had smoked in his lifetime. After the fifteenth, he stopped answering altogether.

"I'm not givin' you a light," Cliff said when Malcolm placed another cigarette between his fingers. 

"I didn't ask for one."

"So you just put one in your mouth just for kicks?" Cliff retorted. "I know you don't have none, and I'm not givin' you any." Malcolm rolled his eyes and put away his pack. "I ain't gonna stop you from smokin'. I can't really. But I ain't helpin' you do it either."

"Then don't," Malcolm answered simply. A silence fell upon the two men. The sunshine had started to descend behind the trees casting shadows of them as well. The breeze had picked up in the evening air, and cars drove down the street, with families heading home for dinner. Happy families. Without any problems...

Cliff removed himself from the wall of the hospital and pointed to the doors. "I'm handin' this in, alright Mal?" Cliff backed up slowly toward the building waiting for an answer. Malcolm finally nodded. He was alone. The city ambiance didn't do anything to clear his head. If the bassist thought this would be a quiet place to talk, he was dead wrong.

Dead...

A few minutes later and there were two men again. Malcolm took the cigarette out of his mouth and placed his hand in his pocket. Without Cliff's help it was useless. With Cliff's help, it was harmful. Either way he was fucked. "Your next visit is November thirtieth. Ready?" the taller man asked out of nowhere. Malcolm started walking as an answer. Cliff's car was parked in between two big trucks and he was gonna have a hell of a time getting out of here. Malcolm didn't mind. As long as he wasn't in that exam room anymore. "You okay?"

"Excellent."

"You sure?"

"Positive." Cliff shrugged and buckled his seatbelt.

"I'm surprised," was his reply.

"Why should you be surprised?" Malcolm asked staring out the front windshield. "We'll go home, everything will be normal again. I'm fine." Cliff frowned at him as he maneuvered his way out of the parking space.

"What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"Look, let's jus' get the fuck outta this place, alright? Gives me the creeps." The bassist let go of the wheel and turned to the other man.

"What the fuck are you talkin' about, Mal? It ain't gonna be normal once we go back home, everything's gonna change. With the hospital visits every few weeks, the medicine you have to bring home, the big time we're takin' off work... Damn these trucks." Malcolm made no comment. "I hate to be such a pessimist but it's not good news. You're sick, Mal."

"I'm not fucking sick," he growled.

Cliff threw a hand up and looked behind him to continue pulling out of the parking lot. "We'll stop by Angus' on the way then I can take you home. How's that?"

"What for?" Malcolm asked. "He doesn't need to know anything, there's nothin' even goin' on."

"He's your brother, Mal." Malcolm didn't answer. "He's been worried about you ever since this whole thing started, ever since you got that fever last March-"

"Why worry him more with a bunch of shit that's not gonna go away? Why tell him his brother's sick an'-an' gonna die tomorrow when-"

"You're not gonna fuckin' die tomorrow, Mal!" Cliff yelled, his voice cracking. "You're not gonna die at all, you heard what they said in there. In a year you'll be fine."

"I'm fine right now."

"With a little medicine and time-"

"I don't need their damn fucking medicine, Cliff, there's nothin' wrong with me. Take me home." Malcolm crossed his arms and turned away from the driver like a child.

"What about Angus?"

"Take me home."

"He needs to know, Mal, it's better if you tell him than a gravestone-" Cliff stopped short. He looked at Malcolm apologetically but even then knew he crossed the line. Way over. "Mal, I'm sorry I-I shouldn't have said that-"

"Take me home."

"That's not gonna happen, you're gonna come out okay, an' then everything will be-'

"Take me home. Now," he demanded. Cliff backed the car out and drove in the direction of Malcolm's house. His wife and kids were there. They would find out. They would find out why their daddy was always gone, why he was always sick. Linda would find out why her husband seemed snappier than usual, and less affectionate.

Angus would find out why his brother hadn't called in a while. He couldn't hide it forever.


	2. Chapter Two

We miss you, Malcolm. 

 

By the time the car pulled up to the curb it was dark. Malcolm was thankful for the difficulty of seeing the look on his face as the engine buzzed in the silence. The house on his left had two windows on, one downstairs, the other upstairs. It looked the same as any other house on the block, but he knew the hidden blue that painted it was quite the deal to the residents last year, the color having won over a pitiful yellow. Angus was probably in there with Ellen, dinner hastily being made, waiting for any news. Well, they would be waiting a while. There wasn't any news to tell.

Cliff reached a hand to his keys about to switch off the ignition but Malcolm stopped him. "I've got a battery, Mal. The car will d-" He coughed his sentence to a stop. "I-I can't keep it...can't keep it runnin'."

Gripping the seat belt in his hand, his thumb popping, he shifted his gaze from the house to the mirror by his window. His eyes were darker since the last time he'd seen them, especially the skin around them. It contrasted to the rest of his face which had turned to paleness, almost a light grey. The downstairs window was right next to the front door. As soon as he walked in he would give it away. Malcolm preferred to stay in the car, where it was dark. Where Angus couldn't see him. He looked away from the mirror, so he couldn't see himself.

His body jolted when he felt a warm hand touch his cool one. Looking down he saw that it was Cliff's, as if he didn't already know. As if he'd forgotten he wasn't alone. He was never alone, he couldn't ever get a moment's peace. Cliff wouldn't let him. Malcolm had unknowingly placed his right hand on the steering wheel, gripping with gusto. Even with a second hand urging him away, Malcolm wouldn't let go. "We're here, ya' know."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," he breathed. It was getting harder to breathe lately. He wanted to go home. He was going home. "C'mon," he said removing his hand from the wheel. "Let's go."

"He's your brother." Malcolm didn't answer. Sitting there stating facts wasn't going to change his mind. "Jus' tell him what the doctor said, I'll come with you."

"An' what if the doctor's wrong, Cliff? What if I'm not sick? I'm not. I'm not gonna run in there, tellin' him somethin' that's not true and have him worryin' over nothin'. I'm fine so jus' take me home." Cliff didn't budge. "Now."

"Will you listen to yourself? You're bein' totally ridiculous, ya' know? Angus should have gone with you." Malcolm closed his eyes at the thought. His brother standing there next to him yelling at his ass, with a cigarette in his hand just as big as the one Malcolm had in his pocket. The hypocrite. Cliff was already givin' his two cents, he knew Angus would be spouting like an ATM. Malcolm didn't need this. He didn't need any of this.

He was fine.

"If Angus came with me, I'd be the one drivin' him home," Malcolm mumbled. "An' with the way you're takin' this..." His eyes opened to peer at the driver, whose glare was stone cold, frustration sparkling within. "...I'm in no condition to drive."

"That's not..." Cliff sighed. "That's not what I said, I..." The engine buzzed over his words, frustrating him more. "Look. All I'm sayin' is he's gonna find out sooner or later, and you know how he is when he's the last to know. Especially when the news is this serious."

"And all I'm sayin' is take me home."

"Mal-"

"I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm cold, an' I want a smoke so fuckin' bad."

"Mal..."

"I miss my wife an' my kids, an' I want a nap. Take. Me. Home." Cliff sighed, not moving. He knew it wasn't right, but who was he to deny a sick man's wishes? Putting the car in gear, he pulled away from the curb and took off down the street, stopping at the stop sign. The man next to him looked asleep, or nearing it. Rest would be good for him, Cliff reasoned. Maybe a night of sleeping on it would bring the news out of him. Bring the sense back into his head.

When no other cars posed a threat, Cliff continued down the road, speeding up a little. The road to Malcolm's house was windy, and Cliff hated making the trip over. With the doctor's diagnosis, he'd be making the trip a lot in the next several months. He wasn't looking forward to it. And this time, the windy street wasn't part of it.

But he would do it. He would make the drive several times a week if it meant getting Malcolm better. He would drive him there and home again, just so Malcolm could rest beside him like he did that moment, the rest he deserved. Cliff was thankful no one else had gotten sick, but angry that Malcolm had. Malcolm. Of all the people on this godforsaken planet...

He swerved the car, narrowly missing the curb. Looking to his left he saw Malcolm hadn't stirred. Maybe he was asleep. When the man crossed his arms and placed his foot over the opposing knee, Cliff thought otherwise. 

 

Malcolm was the one who hired him. Back in '77 after their previous bassist hadn't been up to the boys' standards. Cliff still wasn't quite sure what he had done wrong, but thought against asking about it. Angus later found him, seated in a bar away from the guys. He could still remember the tea cup in his hand, thinking it odd. But that's just Angus, he remembered. He didn't drink like they did. Seating himself next to the bassist, Angus took a sip.

"The boys really like ya'," he said at last. "Bon thinks you play great, Mal says you keep great time."

"Somethin' the other man couldn't do?" Cliff grinned. Angus shrugged.

"Eh, he could. But he wasn't ready for a rock an' roll band jus' yet. Could have tied him down an' taken him along for the ride but he'd never get the hang of it." Cliff just laughed along. "Besides. You're just the honey we need." His laughter was cut short.

"Pardon?"

Angus took another sip, swirling the liquids around in the cup, watching the milk mix in. "Didn't Mal tell you?" Shaking his head, Angus knew to continue. "Well heh. Been-havin' a scarce amount of ladies comin' in lately. Mal wanted someone a bit uh...better in the face to uh, help out, ya' know."

"That's why I'm here?" Cliff asked, voice a tad higher than before. He wasn't upset, just confused. Angus shook his head, seeing the older man's feathers ruffle.

"No, no. Like I said, you keep a beat. You can also sing better too. I mean, Mark was fine, but you're jus'...better," he said. Cliff nodded. So Mark was the man he replaced. That was quite a difference in itself, jumping from a name like Mark, to a name like Cliff. Cliff toyed with the idea that they wanted someone with an odd name to fit in with their odd names. Phil's wasn't odd at the surface. That is, you had to meet him first. Have a few beers. When he wasn't as thirsty as before, he might mention it once or twice if you asked nicely. Angus laughed. "But honey is sweeter than vinegar, ya' know?"

 

Malcolm cleared his throat from the seat next to him. It startled the driver until he remembered where they were. Not a word had been spoken the entire drive. Cliff wondered if it would stay that way.

He didn't mind the quiet. The only problem with the quiet was it gave them a surplus amount of time to think. And thinking lead to emotional outbursts at times like this. Like a dormant volcano finally exploding. The deadly smoke filling up the world's lungs.

Twenty turns later the car slowed down in front of a house. This one was white. Malcolm hated it. But he didn't feel like changing it, not when the inside was more important to him. Cliff cut the engine this time, the man next to him finally opening his eyes. He didn't say anything, and Cliff didn't blame him. Whether or not Angus knew, his wife would surely get it out of him. "We're uh-" Cliff coughed into his hand. "we're here."

"Yeah."

"...so, I guess I'll see you later, huh?"

Malcolm nodded.

"November thirtieth?"

"Sssssure." He opened the door, unbuckling his seat belt. "Not that I need to or anything."

"You're gonna be okay, Mal. You'll be fine."

"I am fine." Cliff lost the smile he tried to pull and nodded. "See ya'."

The car door closed and Malcolm walked the path to his front door. "See ya'." Cliff watched him saunter to the door, jiggle the handle, then dig around his pockets for his keys. When he found them the door opened and hugged him inside. The man inside the car gripped the steering wheel, feeling every groove under his thumbs. Biting his lip he slammed his fist down on the wheel, snapping out of his anger when the horn sounded.

Malcolm jumped when he heard a car horn outside. He set his keys down on the kitchen table where a stove also was, two pots steaming on top. The lid on one of them rose up a centimeter, then clashed as it fell back down. Rivers of steam shot out the side, a drop of water leaping out and sizzling when it died on the burner. No one was in the kitchen save for a potted plant on the window sill.

Taking his jacket off he hurried to the stove and turned the dial, taking the pot off. The sizzling died down, but he panicked slightly not having a place to set it. The handle began to burn, his hand turning red. Rushing to the table he dropped it, the pot landing with a thud. "Fuck!" His hand had turned a blistering red, every second growing worse.

"Oh, Malcolm!" He turned around to see a woman running up to meet him. "I'm sorry, I left the room for one second...are you okay?"

"As good as I'll ever be," he lied through his smile. She returned the look, and took his hand inspecting it. "I think dinner's ready."

"Here, put it under some water." Malcolm walked to the sink, turning the tap on and sticking his hand under the running stream. It burned, but in a healing way. Something he didn't know he'd been needing all day. The woman returned with a paper towel wrapped over a bag of ice and gave it to him.

"Thanks, Linds."

"I didn't hear you come home," she said. He turned the water off and put the ice on his finger, the pain momentarily gone.

"Uh, just got here. Cliff dropped me off."

"Really." Malcolm coughed into his arm, the episode lasting longer than it should have. "You okay?" she asked when he finished.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. How was your day?"

"Good. Busy." Malcolm sat down at the table using the ice pack to push the pot away from him. Linda grabbed a potholder from the counter and took it, placing it on the back burner. "Kids kept me on my feet the whole time."

"Little Ross didn't, did he?" Malcolm asked.

"With his crying, yes. I'd say he did." Three plates were taken out of the cupboard and placed around the table. Malcolm accepted his with a smile. "Cara watched him a while when I was cleaning the bathrooms. I finally got both of them to sleep just in time to make dinner."

"You're doin' the best job anyone ever could," Malcolm said smiling. "The kids are very lucky to have a mum like you."

"They're very lucky to have a dad who comes home every day," Linda said, going over to sit on his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and held her there, her arms around his neck. "And so am I."

"I thought your father was retired," Malcolm grinned.

"Very funny." Malcolm sure thought it was. Linda looked down at him, her fingers fiddling with the ends of his hair. "I should probably wake the kids up," she said. "They're gonna be hungry."

"I can get them if you want," Malcolm offered. "They'll also be pissed they're not sleeping anymore, I can take the whines and pouts."

"Cara had the harder time going to bed," Linda informed as she stood up. "She'll be the cranky one."

Malcolm stood up from the chair as well when a little girl clutching a teddy bear walked into the kitchen. "Daddy's home!"

"Hey, little girl! Come here," he said sitting back down holding his arms out. Cara ran to her father, holding her teddy bear to her chest as she was picked up and set on his lap. "There ya' go. You're not cranky, are ya'?"

"Not anymore. Of course," Linda said bringing the pot of food to the table. She spooned out a deep red chili, the smell intoxicating.

"Uh, dearest. Why are we using plates for this meal?" Malcolm asked kissing Cara's head. "Wouldn't a bowl be more appropriate?"

"Bowls are all dirty," Linda explained. "Some of us had a little snack earlier today, didn't we?"

"You did?" Malcolm asked turning to Cara. "And what did my princess feast on this afternoon?"

"Macaroni," she answered, hiding her face in her stuffy.

"You lucky little thing, I wish I could have been there, though I would have eaten it all up!" Cara's laugh echoed across the kitchen as he tickled her, pretending to eat her up. A small cry came from further up the house, in one of the bedrooms. Linda set the pot down.

"There's your brother. I'll get him." Cara handed her bear off to her father who took it in one palm.

"Mummy let Ross play with him for a bit," she said. Her voice didn't sound like she was too happy about it. "He stuck his ear in his mouth."

"Good thing Ross doesn't have much teeth now, huh? Mr. Teddy didn't get hurt now, did he?"

As an answer she grabbed the bear again and snuggled him close. "His ear was all wet."

"I'll bet it was," Malcolm laughed.

"I don't like Ross touching my toys, he ruins them."

"He doesn't ruin them, my sweet. He just has a different way of showing them his love. But he doesn't mean to upset you. He loves you, you know."

Cara pouted her little pink lips and scratched at her little pink nose. "I don't like playing with him, he gets everything wet."

"Be glad it's from his mouth, pumpkin. Babies have a lot of other methods." He laughed to himself. "He likes playing with you, surely he's not all bad."

"You don't have a little brother," she answered. Malcolm brushed her hair with his hand.

"Actually I do. He's more of a pest than Ross ever will be, still is." Cara didn't answer, her fingers poking her teddy's eyes, petting his fur. "Come on, he's your brother."

Something grabbed the man rendering him unable to move. He lost his breath for a minute, his eyes losing all light, resting on the floor in front of him. He saw the car, the house, the bassist, everything from earlier instead. The world was blurry, the voices echoed rather than spoke.

"He's your brother."

"Take. Me. Home."

His mind snapped back to reality at the sound of a baby cry and a cooing mother. Linda returned to the kitchen, holding a bundle in her arms. By the sound of it, someone wasn't very pleased on being awakened at this hour. His arms were pushed apart, the little girl attempting to escape. "Oh, here you go, sweet," he said setting her down. She ran to her place at the table, pulling her chair out and climbing up. She sat on her knees, resting her teddy against the centerpiece vase filled with white lilies. Her hand inspected him once in a while, taking him away, then setting him back again. Linda bounced the baby in her arms, shushing him softly.

"I guess Ross is the cranky one."

"Here, I'll take him for you." Malcolm reached his arms out to grab his son, cradling the bundle. He still cried. The change of scenery nor the voice of the other parent fazed him. "Hey, champ. You're with Dad now, cheer up!"

"He's probably hungry," Linda said pulling a bottle out of the fridge.

"I know how you feel, bud." He took the bottle and touched the tip to his wrist, squeezing out a drop. "A bit cold here, dearest."

"I'll warm it up, hold on."

"Can I hold him, Daddy?" Cara asked across the table.

"Maybe later sweet pea, Daddy has to feed him first."

"Does Ross like chili?"

"I don't know, I haven't gotten around to askin' him." The bottle was taken from him once Linda set the pot back on the stove, the other one still simmering. She opened it up, pouring the milk in a glass measuring cup, then placing it in the microwave. After a minute she took it out and poured the milk back in the bottle, handing it back to her husband. "Thank you. Alright, little man, here's your dinner."

"How was your day?" Linda asked stirring the contents of the second pot. Malcolm squeezed another drop of milk on his wrist and waited a few seconds.

"Okay," he said. "Long, but okay." He tested the milk again. "Uneventful."

Lowering her voice whether or not there was any need to, she asked again. "How'd it go with your appointment?"

"Eh." She stared at him.

"What'd the doctor say?"

"A lot. Much of it I couldn't understand, you know how doctors are. Can't tell a penny from a penis."

"Malcolm!" Linda scolded, biting her lip to hold back a grin. Malcolm smiled at Cara, who giggled like a maniac. "I should hope they did know the difference."

"Not when the latter looks like a stack of 'em." He laughed then tested the milk a third time. It was just right. "Anyways dearest, I'm fine. Healthy as a horse."

"...Really?"

Malcolm coughed a few times, then touched the bottle to his son's lips. "Yeah, couldn't have gone better. I'm perfectly fine."

The phone rang. Not long after the baby accepted the food in his mouth did it ring, once, twice, three times. Linda sighed, turning the burner's dial down, and walked into the living room. A tiny voice spoke. "I like chili."

Malcolm turned to look at his daughter, whose spoon was in her mouth, chili dribbling out the sides. "I can see that. Me and Mummy like it too, though I will say we like it better in bowls. Here, let's clean you up a bit." Balancing the baby in one arm he reached across the table to grab a napkin, and held it to Cara's face, wiping off any remaining food.

"Malcolm?"

He saw Linda standing in the entryway.

"Angus is on the phone."

"Oh. Okay, uh, can you take..." He passed the baby over to his wife who continued to feed him. He stood up and entered the living room, finding the phone off its hook on the shelf, waiting for him. He didn't take it at first. The plastic touched his hand and almost burned, like the pot handle. He left his ice on the table, but he began to wish he hadn't. Holding the phone up to his ear he spoke. "Hello?"

"Mal? That you?"

"No, this is still Linda, I'm doin' impressions now," he answered sarcastically. A deep laugh sounded from the other end, one anyone could recognize in an instant.

"Well, it's sure a poor one."

"What are ya' ringin' about, Ang?" Malcolm asked twirling the cord around his finger. His question seemed to catch his brother off guard, as he went without an answer for a while. "Ang?"

"I thought for sure you knew..."

"Knew what?"

"You had that appointment today." Malcolm laughed a bit, keeping his cool.

"Oh, yeah. That one."

"You did go...didn't you, Mal?"

"Of course I went. Cliff took me, remember? Dropped me off a few minutes ago." He sat on the chair next to the shelf, moving his hair out of his eyes. "Had a real blast."

"Is...everything...okay?"

"...yeah. Yeah, everything went swell."

"Now I haven't been to the doctor myself in a while," Angus admitted. "but I don't think anyone really has a blast over there."

"Well, I did. Put that in your pipe an' smoke it," Malcolm joked. Angus didn't find it so funny.

"What did the guy say?" Digging his nails into the fabric of the couch hurt, so he cleared his throat instead in the gnarliest way possible.

"Said-ya' know, said I ought to quit smokin' so much." His voice cracked. "Said it's bad for my health an' all that shit, you've heard it before." He had heard it before. They all had at least once in their lives. They never let it stop them. "Always the same shit."

"Yeah...listen, did he say anything about your symptoms?" Angus asked getting to the point. "You've been havin' a lot of 'em...gettin' worse."

"Turns out it's chronic case of stress induced pneumonia, perhaps acute tuberculosis," Malcolm answered in his straightest voice. "Doc says these might be my last moments."

"Seriously?"

"No, Ang, they're jus' common cold symptoms, nothin' to get all knotted up for." Angus sighed. "Scared ya', didn't I?" Malcolm grinned.

"Cut the crap, Mal. Yes, you did scare me. Stress induced pneumonia. You sure you're alright though?" he asked. "I've seen you more than he has, an' that didn't look like no cold."

"'T's what the doc says. Can't argue with a med degree, can ya'?"

"When he starts chargin' ya' a thousand for a check up....stress induced pneumonia...do they even make that?"

"Hell if I know, Ang." Malcolm could hear pots and pans in the background.

"Well, I guess dinner's ready. I'll call you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Sure, come over an' visit, I'll be here. Me an' the wife. The kids. They'd love to see ya'."

"Yeah. You sure you're okay?"

"Have I ever lied to you?" He could sense his brother's smile on the other end.

Plenty of times.

"Alright, Mal. I'll leave you here." A second of quiet passed. "I love you."

He hiccuped and brought a hand to his mouth. "I love you too."

"Bye." Malcolm hung up the phone. All jokes were washed down the kitchen sink. All laughs he might have had were quickly vanishing, tears forming instead. A ball of steel wedged itself in his throat, taking away any chance of swallowing, or breathing with ease. His cheeks were suddenly wet, a hand reaching up to dry them off. He's heard the words before, but the way he said them...so smoothly. So readily.

So truthfully.

Suddenly he was standing. Pacing the room, hands shaking as he hunted for his lighter. Books on the shelf were toppled over, pillows on the couch ripped from their places. Finally he saw it under the lamp, where Linda's knitting also was. Careful not to knock it over, he grabbed the lighter and with it, the cigarette in his pocket, still fresh.

The flame danced in his hold, barely latching on to the tobacco stick. Just as he was getting a grip his wife appeared in the entryway, Ross in her arms. "Malcolm?"

He turned around.

"Malcolm, are you okay?"

The man made sure to dry any hints of crying lest anyone come into the room and see him in his moment of weakness. He refused to be weak in front of his family, not now. He had to stay strong, for family. For friends. For love. "Yeah, I'm fine."

She slowly approached him, the baby intently sucking the bottle dry. Malcolm placed his hand on the little one's head, his thumb brushing over any hair he had. "What did the doctor say?" she whispered.

He looked into her eyes. The eyes he loved so much, and couldn't bear being anything less than honest to. He looked back at his son, who had the same eyes. "Jus'...that I should be careful is all. I'm gettin' older-"

"You're not that old," she said. "You're hardly thirty, if that's old, I'm in trouble." He smiled at her. 

"I jus' meant...I need to be careful is all. With the symptoms I've got, I need rest. I've been working too hard. An' so have you," he said patting the baby's head.

"I have to. Kids can't take care of themselves."

"You can, can't you, bud?" The baby didn't answer. Only drank the last few drops of milk in his bottle. "Come on. Let's get some food then go to bed, I'm exhausted."

"Mal?" Linda asked, watching him close the lighter and set the cigarette down. His hands were still shaking, hesitant to let the objects go. With a nod and a thumb in each of his pockets, he walked out of the living room.

"I'm fine."


End file.
